


Little Boy Blues

by theblindtorpedo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Backstory, Character Study, Childhood, Dreamscapes, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Grooming, Peter’s Descent Into Being An Avatar of the Lonely, Rusty Quill Big Bang, Sometimes Observed by Other Avatars, Suicide Attempt, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26246731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblindtorpedo/pseuds/theblindtorpedo
Summary: The walls of Moorland House are laden with history. The Lukases barter in broken lives, lost souls and diminished dreams. For Peter Lukas his life has already been laid out for him. That being said, everyone involved with the Entities agrees that he is especially suited to his future role as Avatar. He just needs a little coaxing on the path.Trauma is not always harsh and bludgeoning. Sometimes it creeps and consumes like a limitless, suffocating Fog.
Comments: 17
Kudos: 27
Collections: Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020





	Little Boy Blues

The Lukas family was in need of another History tutor. The last man had been fresh out of his own schooling and, with all the naivete of young academics, arrayed himself in the stereotypical paraphernalia. All tweed elbow patches and horn-rimmed spectacles, he had cultivated an aura designed to convince Deans and Headmasters to take him seriously, to minimal success. For him, the Lukas commission had been an unexpected drop of fortune. He had not been timid in his declarations of enthusiasm towards the challenge of the children’s education. Those in the know shook their heads, the bravest even attempted to dissuade him with stories of the previous persons rotated out of the Lukases’ employment. He paid them no heed.

After six months the fire in his eyes was doused and the locals began to see less and less of the man. By the summer, the once exuberant spirit no longer made appearances in town although his continued existence was confirmed by letter passed through the postal office. Then, suddenly, the Lukases once again advertised for a History tutor.

There were many theories on the extraordinarily poor retention rate of Lukas staff, cobbled from rumor, gossip, gross conjecture, and even some firsthand accounts. 

The established facts were these:

The Lukas family had resided in the area for as long as anyone could remember. The current estate, Moorland House, erected in the late eighteenth century, lay in a deep crevasse running along the great forest, so that none of the townsfolk could watch the goings on behind its imperious iron facade. Yet, those who escaped employment there hypothesized this arrangement was to support residents’ prideful reclusiveness rather than anxious fear. The Lukases were known to be fastidiously religious in this aspect.

The parental figures of the current generation were grossly antisocial. There were no flashy cars bearing famous guests for weekly dinners. No lavish parties with wine spilling like water. The majority of the family business was managed by the younger brother Nathaniel who was consistently absent as his responsibilities required, leaving Samuel and his brood in primary residence. A milquetoast from a line of bold patriarchs, Samuel’s name and inheritance were the only gifts he presented his family. He faded into the background with such effectiveness that those who met him found themselves curiously forgetful of his appearance even moments later. His wife, Claudia, ran the household with dedication and precision. However, she rarely involved herself directly. The Head Housekeeper was constantly weighed down by the written orders of her Lady. Claudia made decisions and The Housekeeper executed them.

Most of the children did not take after their parents. The eldest, a pair of twins named Delilah and Dinah, were loud and brash. They demanded and pushed, long ago learning that to provoke was the best way to extract what they wanted from others. They hid behind sneers and jibes, folded into each other defensively and looked upon others, including the rest of their family, with suspicion and scorn. Their least favorite time was bedtime when they were shepherded apart by Claudia’s draconian decree. If you had the audacity to be awake and wandering the halls in the late hours of the evening you might catch soft sobs from their separate rooms.

Yet, invariably, come morning there would always be one empty bed and Dinah and Delilah curled tight against each other in the other. Claudia knew, of course, and continuously punished them for their indiscretion. Their clothes were always the least fine, their food the least plentiful, and their freedom the most restricted. Delilah and Dinah had yet to learn the value of isolation.

Next down the line was Judith. Considered the most pleasant of the bunch, most of the staff looked upon her with deep pity. She tugged at skirts for attention, laid books in the laps of nannies, and brought games to the feet of her siblings. She so sweetly begged for crumbs of engagement. Occasionally her luck would win out and a new servant would dote on her, sneak her the kisses she ached for and pet her hair. For one glorious moment, Judith would be happy, until Claudia found out and the offending servant would be swiftly fired. Children were to be built not cared for. Although continuously denied affection for personal and professional reasons, Judith persisted in her futile attempts at human connection. She carried an air of perpetual exhaustion about her.

The penultimate child, Aaron, was shy. He preferred books and curled up in the library bay windows with his leather-bound friends. His most unfortunate trait was his propensity for waterworks. Even into his early teens, at the slightest amount of emotional stress, tears would leak down the poor boy’s face and followed by, if he was near enough, a frantic rush to his room. If he were not so lucky, he would freeze like a cornered animal and his misery could soak through a room in minutes, dampening all in proximity. The household revolved around a tacit pact to engage Aaron as little as possible to avoid such demonstrations.

Peter was undeniably their parent’s pride and joy, or as close as you could get with the Lukases. After the births of her previous children Claudia had immediately handed their wrapped forms off to the help. With Peter she had paused long enough to be caught by his calm eyes and in turn upon her face blossomed a curious, contemplative thought. In the months following, she did not feed or bathe him, she did not cuddle or play with him, but Peter never demanded such things from her, somehow knowing to save his bodily demands for the servants. He rarely fussed, so that Claudia could sit with him in her arms for hours, a Madonna and Child as motionless as a statue, but even this point of contact was more than she had afforded the other children. As a toddler she permitted him to hide between her legs, a haven from the advances of his siblings. By the time he could walk, he had abandoned his mother for the corners of the house. Peter was permitted to wander wherever he wished.

It was not clear what made Peter special beyond his status as the youngest. Peter was outwardly well adjusted. Peter meditated in his room or worked diligently on his model ships in a bottle (expensive affairs provided by his parents to be discarded casually as soon as completed). He liked solitude, but Peter could hold a conversation if pressed. He spoke with familiarity and forwardness. Peter’s voice carried the lilt of a voicemail machine, a coached cheeriness that could not cover up the speaker’s disinvestment in the interaction. He was uncanny and could not be tried for it in any court. Peter approached everyone with ambivalence and left them trembling with uncertainty.

Herein was the danger: for if Peter Lukas decided he did not like someone their doom was sealed. Some were lucky, dismissed with generous backpay they always used to leave England for a substantial holiday far from gloomy halls. Others emerged like the history teacher, with sunken expressions and permanent pallor. The last poor souls simply disappeared.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Peter’s first word is “hide” and no one is surprised. His siblings conscript him in numerous games, to inevitable disappointment at his lack of enthusiasm, except towards the classic. Peter excels at hide and seek.

“Hide,” he cries, at dinner.

“Hide,” he whispers when the Housekeeper tucks him into bed

“Hide!” he spits when he is bothered.

It is during one of these games, that Peter hides himself in the recesses of the library where the shelves are pressed in like the gigantic structures of a primitive forest. He crouches in a corner, arms crossed over his knees, and closes his eyes, imagining himself a boulder. No feelings. No thoughts. He quite likes this existence, until he is rudely thrown from his geologic reverie by the unmistakable clamor of living things. He scrambles to his feet as the footsteps and the giggling come closer, and in his haste his hip catches a reading table. The books on its surface fall to the floor face open and in that instant the game is forgotten as Peter is presented with something wholly new. There is a photograph replicated there, details faded to coffee brown and forms broken where ink has worn away. This ship he will later learn is called a schooner. Peter traces his fingers over the curve of its bow. He sees himself standing alongside the small figures of men on the dock, staring up at the broad expanse of painted wood. 

“Found you!” Dinah springs from behind the bookshelf, face broken with her cackling, but Peter pays her no heed as he continues to look at the page. This behemoth will sail on the sea; the next page is an illustration of its transoceanic trek, the waves dance and the ship carves through them with steady solemnity. There is no taming of nature here, but an elegant symbiosis. He wonders how it feels to stand astride the ship. Dinah has stuck her hands on her hips.

“Are we gonna play some more?

“No.”

“Fine, I didn’t want to play your baby games anyway.”

She leaves him. He sits cross-legged, flipping through one book after the other until his eyes beg in that burning way. He heads to bed with the book tucked under his arm.

It is on the third day that he notices. Peter cannot read a full sentence yet, but he can recognize a few letters of importance. On the page in crisp serif is a name he recognizes. Lukas. So this is his family’s ship? There are pictures of men who bare vague resemblances to his father, in the roll of their jaws and the distinct beards. Peter will grow a beard too, he knows, although he cannot imagine himself with one. What he can imagine is being surrounded by endless waves.

Now when he walks through the Great Hall of Moorland House he can feel the ghosts about him. He stares up at the wooden beams above, the curvature of planks makes sense now, the skeleton in which men lived and worked days of drudgery and neverending hope in the dismal nothingness of the voyage. Lukases are sailors even on land. It is rather like being in the belly of a whale.

\- - - - - - - - - -

Peter is six years old when he attends his first funeral.

The gravel protests in ragged groans at being buffeted for the first time in weeks, as the cars with tinted windows invade the driveway and their passengers emerge already shrouded in dark veils that hide their faces. Today Moorland House is the asphodel fields as relatives descend, as unidentifiable as shades.

Peter recognizes only Uncle Nathaniel who has visited before, usually to shut himself away in hushed conference with Samuel, Peter’s father. By association the woman on Uncle Nathaniel’s arm must be his wife and the boy Peter’s age is his son Conrad, the little comprehensible info he has gleamed from eavesdropping. Conrad’s name always drips from Nathaniel’s lips with derision. 

Peter has pulled his own veil from the pile and adjusted it as he is used to. It is the same one he wears every Sunday when in lieu of Church the family of seven assembles outside the mausoleum to stand in meditation, to stew in the isolation of the veil, until after hours their legs give out and they collapse to be assisted back to the house by the awaiting servants. In spirit this funeral is no different and the accumulation of bodies is inconsequential to the familiar sensation of the exercise.

Nathaniel does not wear a veil. He leads the procession up to the mausoleum like a sure-footed Hades. This time the doors are opened to bracket the coffin on a makeshift pedestal and beyond the darkness of the mausoleum extends like a starving maw.

There is no retaliation as Nathaniel abducts Peter from the circle of his immediate family members, and shoves him towards the coffin. Samuel takes no ownership of his son, abdicating power to Nathaniel as routinely as a dedicated pupil to a teacher. Nor is there a response from the crowd when Nathaniel rips Peter’s veil off and lets it drop onto the dead woman’s chest. No wind stirs the air and the clouds blanket the sky in grey, lending the scene a stale quality that only accentuates the family’s mixture of resignation and disinterest. Even his usually boisterous siblings are subdued by the atmosphere.

Peter does not like the absence of the veil. The fabric has always comfortably obscured the world around him. Now he is forced to face this dead woman whose name he does not know. He does not understand what is expected of him except to wait.

The hours pass immeasurably and one by one the Lukases crumble to their knees. Peter lets his gaze flick to Nathaniel’s face, looking for instruction that is unforthcoming, but he does catch the disappointment when Conrad’s knees buckle and the smug triumph when Samuel falters against his wife to slide to the floor. Claudia stands firm and is one of the last remaining, but eventually even Peter’s mother succumbs with a shameful cry.

Then it is just the two of them. Uncle Nathaniel, Peter and the dead woman.

“Finally Forsaken.” Uncle Nathaniel says and his words come out in a breath of fog, although there is no cold air to craft it so. The fog grows in intensity until it overcomes the room and the Lukases, revitalized by an unseen force, are pulled to their feet.

“Forsaken.” The adults repeat as the children cower silently against each other.

The relatives depart in their uniform cars and Peter has not learned any more names, has no personalities to attribute to the faces etched into the family tree in the great hall. Seated inside his car, veil removed, Conrad’s face scrunches with confusion as Uncle Nathaniel shuts the door on his son.

Then Peter is led to his father’s study. Samuel is smoking a cigarette pensively, facing the now darkened window with his back to the action of Nathaniel motioning for Peter to sit at a stool next to the desk. Samuel has laid out a set of books, papers and charts for Nathaniel’s perusal.

“I doubt that even in his most absorbent stages, he will benefit from watching you toil away over the company plans and finances,” Samuel says, still refusing to meet his brother or son’s eyes.

“I have Conrad do the same. It’s about familiarizing them with the process,” Nathaniel reprimands and his brother shrugs, easily chastened. “He has at least a few years before the tests. Here, Peter, if you’re bored for now take this.” He hands over a spool of rope that is thick and rough. The fibers reek of brine.

Peter snaps the rope back and forth through his fist, enjoys the rough burn that leaves his palm aching and red. After some time he tires of this and begins to manipulate the rope until he has twisted it into a firm knot. 

Nathaniel looks up from his scratchings. “What you’ve made there is a figure eight knot. Good for hauling.”

After the funeral this becomes the routine. Once a week Nathaniel visits and forces Peter to sit at his side as he carries on his business, Samuel overseeing from a distance, and Peter, unable to parse any of the text or even the distilled explanations, works on his knots.

\-- - - - - - - - -

Peter does not understand why Uncle Nathaniel has taken such interest in him as by his own self-appraisal he is stupid. It is established early in his childhood that Peter struggles with reading. His teachers claim his general intelligence, self-expression and critical thinking skills are on course, at least by what the standard child-rearing books say, but when text is presented, he stumbles and stops, trips over the words like they are broken cobblestone ruins instead of a path to enlightenment. This new hindrance grates upon his parents who arrange a flurry of tutors to sit with Peter for hours into the night. He does not sleep much between the ages of five and seven. The letters are sorted, the word maps arranged, the books placed in front of him and eventually he can stagger through a story. Yet, his laborious efforts are not sufficient. Speed is of the essence.

“Peter isn’t going to be an academic. That’s not what he was made for,” his father says. “We have to make this work.”

“So he’s a bit dim-witted . . . a Lukas won’t allow that to keep them from their rightful position. And I’m not having another child,” his mother says. “We have to make this work.”

Peter has resigned himself to the unending drudgery of the tutors trying to pry what they wanted out of him. In the hours set aside for quiet contemplation his siblings take pity on him. Delilah and Dinah drag him out to a makeshift amphitheatre, crafted by stray rocks, and turn their two voices into a Greek chorus. One day Dinah is Peter Rabbit, her fingers playfully placed above her head in a facsimile of bunny ears, as Delilah chases her in circles holding a spade absconded from the garden shed. Aaron has written scripts and Judith has decorated the set, both sitting proudly on either side of Peter where the twins perform. They learn the stories Peter is assigned for homework, bring them to light with flare and dramatics, so that the next day, when asked what he read he can spin convincing lies. The method works until they find their makeshift theater decimated, the remaining collapsed rocks seared black and the intricate border of ivy and flowers either ripped to strewn shreds or leftover smoke on the wind.

Their original plan foiled the Lukas children take up another approach to aiding the youngest of their clan. They are good hearted and although Peter never let a word of protest or complaint slip from his lips, even in privacy away from adult ears, it is clear to them that he is undergoing a mute suffering. As disappointed as his parents are in his performance, he is not punished in any tangible way. Peter is aware that only his stoic compliance keeps him safe from any repercussions from his failures.

“Read this to me,” Peter orders, shoving a children’s history of Tudor England in Judith’s direction. She recognizes it as one she had agonized over in its dryness. She begins to read, begrudgingly, but she has not passed onto the second sentence before Peter commands that she halt. He repeats the sentence back, not at her, he stares off into the distance as he always does. Peter does not look people in the eye.

“Go on.”

She repeats the sentence, tactfully adds the second one. So they continue into the late hours of the night in Peter’s quest to memorize the text.

The next day they watch him read aloud, just enough falters and pauses to appear genuine, a juvenile actor. The teacher sighs with relief and claps him on the shoulder. Peter huffs and when the lesson is over he excuses himself to his first free late afternoon in years. He chooses his freedom in lying on the lawn with eyes closed and hands clasped across his chest like a corpse.

It is not long until they catch onto this tactic and Peter is once again prisoner of the printed page.

“Why do I have to learn how to read?” he asks Aaron, for Aaron is the one who genuinely enjoys the activity and Peter seeks insight.

“Work. Adult stuff, I guess. But wanna know a secret? They make you read such boring things, but books aren’t just about that. There are so many other cool places and people.“ Aaron’s face gets dreamy.

Aaron has been talking to the servants, Peter supposes, for how else would he know these fantastical tales he regales Peter with. Stories of princes and pirates. Stories of other children and bad parents and escape. These people aren’t real. Peter cannot understand caring about what happens in their life. They are so irrational, act differently than what Peter would. They make him more confused.

Peter does not enjoy trying to comprehend the lives of strangers, historical or fictional. He misses the simplicity of childhood and the free reign of running about. Of building little boats and towns with his block for hours on end. He misses hide and seek.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The Housekeeper is flummoxed by Delilah’s frantic cries.

“We can’t FIND HIM!” the girl shrieks. 

“What is happening?” Samuel asks, voice dripping with chronic weariness.

“Peter is missing and the children are distraught. We haven’t found him yet, apologies.”

“Hardly a reason to be neglecting your duties. All of you, get back to work. Peter will turn up eventually.”

“Yes, sir.” The Housekeeper says.

“Yes, sir.” The children bow their heads.

That night Peter has crawled into bed, but his mental preparation for sleep interrupted when he feels something hit the edge of his bed 

“Where were you?” Dinah hisses.

“I was hiding in the greenhouse.”

“We all checked there don’t lie! You should say you’re sorry to Delilah you made her cry.”

“But I’m not sorry. It’s not my fault you couldn’t find me.”

“You did SOMETHING, there’s no way everybody looking together couldn’t find you.”Peter does not respond, but he watches with intrigue as in his silence Dinah’s anger collapses in upon itself, and the girl eventually grants him exhausted, begrudging affection. She reaches out to hug him and squeezes tight, undeterred by how he stays unresponsive in her arms.

“Well . . . you missed dinner.” Dinah pulls back and reveals a bread roll hidden in her sleeve. “I was saving this for me, but you can have it.”

When Peter shuffles into breakfast his mother barely glances at him from where she taps her fork against her untouched food. Claudia rarely eats. She sits through the motion of a meal and more often than not, it is removed untouched. Peter is familiar with the feeling. His body may cry out in hunger, but the act itself is anathema. The repeated movements, the endless upkeep of the self is draining. He knows what is just enough to consume to leave him the ability to function. Sometimes, when his body cries out in need he will find pills in the recesses of the bathroom cabinets he knows will lull him to sleep to escape the gnaw. He fantasizes of Claudia doing the same in her tall bed. Peter does not require acknowledgement from his mother, but connects through these small similarities. The eccentricities that his siblings do not share. Peter and Claudia have an understanding.

She had known he was safe. So it had not been a proper win. One day Peter will press his luck.

\- - - - - - - - - -

The hallways are dark as he creeps towards the kitchens. Unable to find an illicit cure for hunger, Peter had resisted the urge to waste away in his room.

“Master Peter,” the Cook “what a surprise?”

“I’m hungry.”

“You insult me every time you leave my food untouched. Still sneak back down here. Why should you get to eat?”

“I could have you fired.”

“You could. And I don’t think I’d mind terribly with all the money your family gives me. You know the only reason why any of us stay here is for the money.”

“Of course.”

“Good boy. Wouldn’t want you getting any ideas of loyalty. We’re all just alone in this world.”

“I know.”

“I’ll give you a present for that revelation. You must be starving.” The Cook takes out cold pieces of chicken, cuts an apple, and places the plate in front of Peter who does not move to eat it at all.

His stomach growls in betrayal.

“Come on. There’s no pride to be had here.”

Peter shakes his head.

“Obstinate child. Look here.” The cook pulls a pack of playing cards from their apron pocket. “Your decision. Choose a suit. If you can pull a card of that suit you don’t have to eat, but if its another, you eat.“

The odds are not in Peter’s favor, but the chance in it is alluring. More importantly, there is no person forcing him to action, if he must eat it is decreed by the inevitable laws of the universe.

“Alright.”

“Call it then.”

“Spades.” The Cook shuffles. Peter does not see them slip a specific card onto the top of the pile.

Peter takes the card. Diamond Queen.

So this becomes a ritual. At around eleven every night Peter will make his way down to the kitchens where the Cook will have the contest laid out, they cycle through several card games. If Peter wins he sneaks back with a sense of accomplishment and pride feeding him. If Peter loses he gets a meal and a forced respite from his stubbornness. Either way Peter wins.

\- - - - - - - - - - 

He is hiding again and this time it is not part of any game or bet. Wrapped close on hands and knees Peter still fills the space not designed for humans, even young boys. He sniffs and coughs at the dusty air that blows through the makeshift tunnel that should be packed tight with insulation. Moorland House, like its adult inhabitants, gracefully maintains the veneer of composure while its insides have been left to sag and decompose, neglect stripping the body of any warmth. Peter would not say he enjoys these dirtier excursions of his, he would prefer to sit out on the lawn or to pose by his window, either option affording his lungs fresh air, but it is too easy for him to be spotted there. Peter resolved to be patient and wait out the day within the walls. He fancies himself a victim from one of the gothic ghost stories Aaron whispers to him at night.

He knows from experience the trick to hide and seek is to keep moving. During his periodic repositioning, he finds himself above the great hall and takes pause at the voices below. One he recognizes as Uncle Nathaniel, who visits once a week and pinches Peter’s cheek like he is a piece of meat and shakes his head when Peter is too rare for consumption. The other is unfamiliar, a man who’s tone is as light and airy as his powder blue suit. He must be the painter, the onus for Peter’s current discomfort, the man hired to force him to sit still and stare into a light for hours so he might symbolically join the Lukas lineage upon the wall. He is thrown by his body’s visceral response; before he had been afraid, a quivering foal at the prospect of another of his interminable duties as favored son. Seeing the visage of his prophesied tormentor, It is gratifying to corral that loose fear, tie it up into a tight ball of anger that sits heavy in his gut extending its vile fingers to increase his heart rate, constrict his muscles, the way his hands shake as the map out the border of the hole. Then, as if he can sense the roiling above, the man’s head inclines upwards and Peter’s breath catches, as eyes as azure as a clear sky bore into his. Peter is overcome with nausea, as if he is perched at the apex of a skyscraper about to plummet. The man crooks his finger and then Peter does fall. The ceiling gives way with a thunderous sound, but instead of dashing his innards upon urban concrete or the expected marble of the hallway, Peter jolts from the adrenaline induced haze to find he is cradled in the stranger’s spindly arms. He feels as if he were caught by a weeping willow.

“Stop that,” comes the disembodied voice of Uncle Nathaniel. The harshness of the vertigo ebbs until it is a mild throb in Peter’s skull.

The stranger fixes Peter with a fondness misplaced on a boy he has just met. “He has Mordechai’s eyes. James will like that. Or whoever he is when Peter’s old enough for him.”

“Hopefully, not for a while,” Nathaniel says, “Come on, no time for reminiscing. There is a portrait to be done and I have a meeting at five.”

“You people have such a constrictive perception of time, but I will acquiesce. Be a dear and carry my tools for me?” the stranger says, and Nathaniel obliges, collecting the assortment of wrapped canvases and bag laden with paints and brushes. The stranger lets out a small grunt as he hefts Peter into a better position in his arms. Peter instinctually clutches at the man’s neck, frozen by a mix of shock and acceptance of his inability to escape. The wrinkles belie a man who has just passed from middle age into the realm of elderly yet the supernatural grasp of those thin fingers give Peter pause. There is something very not right about the stranger.

Samuel is waiting in the studio. The easel is already assembled and a backdrop hung behind a single wood stool, a prince’s throne for the next four hours. With a wave of relief, Peter is deposited gently onto his own two feet and his father hands him a spare pair of clothes, tongue clicking at the dirt and dust stains on his son’s current attire. Samuel had prepared, a reminder of who held the reins to Peter’s life, irrespective of any efforts otherwise. Peter bows his head in shame, not at the state of his clothes, but at the failure of his evasion. They had known where he was all along. 

“Be good for Mr. Fairchild. Your Uncle and I will be in the study.”

“I will, Father.”

Peter alights upon the stool and grips the edge with white knuckles.

“Relax,” Mr. Fairchild says, as he scratches out an outline with charcoal. “I’m sorry I scared you back there, but you made it so very easy. Low hanging fruit is hard to ignore.”

“I’m not a piece of fruit.” He thinks of Uncle Nathaniel. “Or meat.”

“Ahah, of course not. We won’t force you into anything you don’t want. Our job is simply to show you the path best for someone of your disposition.”

“Disposition?” Peter is unsure what the word means. Mr. Fairchild cranes his turtle long neck around the edge of the canvas and scrapes his focus across the boy’s torso. Peter squirms.

“I know this is especially rough for you. You don’t like being watched, do you? Not many people do, unless they’re born entertainers, but I’ve been told it’s especially arduous for some. Almost like a wound, for those of you with the worst of your affliction. Here, I’ll try to take your mind off it all. Let’s see, Samuel hasn’t told me if you have an affinity, but I like you, which means we must be close. Let me guess, the sea?”

“Yes.”

“How wonderful. Lean into that feeling, Peter. The sea will be your lifelong friend. For me it was the sky. Have you ever seen a painting by Tintoretto? I suppose not: far too young and museums are quite lively these days. Not a place for a Lukas. I’ll bring you to a museum when you’re older. Now, Tintoretto! Fabulous figures, but at the expense of the remainder. So, it was up to my lot, the assistants, to fill in the blanks. The buildings, the roads, the air, my expertise. I’ll give you a lovely sky. Unfortunately for both of us your parents had a specific request as to the subject of this painting.”

“You talk a lot.”

Mr. Fairchild laughs at the accusatory tone. “Fine, I get the idea. Good old Simon will zip his lips for now so he can work his magic.”

A few hours later and Peter is released from his torment. The painting is not finished, but the main colours and shapes have all been laid down. Peter recognizes his own cow-like half lidded eyes, his tufted hair, and vacant tight-lipped smile, a flaw that he knows is not a byproduct of any deficit in Mr. Fairchild’s skill.

When the final picture arrives in the mail, prepared and framed to join the gallery in the North Wing, there is a note attached.

_For our future Wanderer Above the Sea of Fog._

_Good luck,_

_Simon Fairchild, The Falling Titan_

\- - - - - - - - -

Peter awakes to Delilah flinging his door open. The harsh thud shakes the clock on the wall that reads eight in the morning. He is jolted into remembering the occasion: Change Day.

“Where’s Aaron? This is a room for boys.”

“Could have fooled me,” Delilah says, twisting her face up in derision at the furniture and walls devoid of any personal objects, before dumping her collection of dolls unceremoniously at the foot of his bed.

The ever diligent Housekeeper is quick in pursuit. “Miss Delilah, please come here your new room is this way.”

“But I want this one, it’s the biggest, and Peter’s had it for a whole year even when we had to switch in the summer and it’s not fair-“

“You know the rules.”

Delilah turns her scathing gaze to Peter as if these rules are his fault. He smiles at her. 

“It’s easy to let go of things,” he says and in demonstration he reaches a hand-out to grab the button eye of the doll closest, a sharp tug, a snap, and the face is broken and forlorn. She gapes at him, before taking one timid step backwards. He offers her the button resting in his palm, but she recoils as if it is poisoned.

“You don’t deserve it.” Delilah eventually hisses before turning on her heel and stomping away. The Housekeeper casts Peter an apologetic smile. She reaches down to scoop up the dolls.

“I’ve yet to tell the rest, but your parents decided you’re permitted to keep this room for as long as you like.”

“Does everyone else still have to change rooms?”

“Yes, as usual.”

“They won’t like that.”

“No, they won’t.” 

The halls of Moorland House are wide and tiled in white and black marble, cold and sterile without adornment. All art was condemned to the North Wing, portraits out of tradition, statues hoarded for the wealth they represent rather than any aesthetic appreciation. The main part of the house is barren. The other Lukas siblings chatter about the books they’ve read or the games they’ve invented, and they squabble over who has been stealing the shampoo or if they should ask their parents for a dog or a cat. Their rabble makes a valiant effort to fill the silence, but still they cannot stop their voices from echoing back at them, a constant reminder of the futility of joviality in the oppressive atmosphere. 

The dining room is the only area outside the bedrooms and libraries with chairs. They line up at the table, Delilah and Dinah on one side, Judith and Aaron at the other, Peter and Claudia at the heads. Their father does not sit for meals, but he is present in the way that smoke from an extinguished cigarette is present. Calculated to avoid crossing paths with his family, he is already sequestered for the foreseeable future.

They do not speak at breakfast, even the other children know better than that. There is only the nervous clink of silverware, and the unsettling soft sounds of chewing. The food is rich: overly seasoned eggs, dark aged sausage, bread, and potatoes. Peter picks, suffers a few mouthfuls, thinks he would prefer plain oatmeal, but he knows better than to be ungracious.

When they are finished, they wait. Claudia brings out a notepad and in deft hand writes, before handing it to the Housekeeper positioned at her shoulder.

“Today, we will all be going on an excursion! Isn’t that wonderful?” The Housekeeper’s own excitement rings out. Claudia glares and the Housekeeper stutters out an apology, before returning to a neutral tone. “We will be exploring the forest for your biology instruction.”

“Can we go to the lake instead and capture a frog for dissection?” Dinah asks, she unsubtly kicks Aaron under the table.

“That’s what other kids do,” he adds. Dinah is satisfied. Claudia waves her hand sharply, an adamant refusal to take stock of her children’s preferences.

“This lesson will focus on botanicals,” The Housekeeper clarifies. “You will draw as many native plants you like and in the afternoon your tutor will be in to discuss them with you.

“I’m not doing it.” Delilah folds her arms. Dinah repeats the motion for emphasis.

“Then you do not have to go.” Claudia’s stentorian voice comes down like a hammer. The pressure greater for the rarity of its use. The girls’ rebellion deflates. Primed to win the fight, they are lost when faced with the fact that even if they snarl and bite it is never on their own terms. Claudia decides if the ring is open or closed.

Peter harbors no interest, but he goes for he has no energy to resist and compliance saves him from the enemy of confrontation. Their ragtag group stops in town first, the Housekeeper on bended knee begging them to not tell their parents which the children eagerly agree to. They must pick up some notebooks and pencils for drawing their findings. Aaron contemplates the people outside, the twins jostle at the counter throwing opinions on color and style of the products the Housekeeper has chosen, which leaves Judith and Peter open to invasion. Peter hates this; he is too vulnerable here. The predator in his imagination materializes as a girl their own age that approaches them with undeserved boldness. 

“Are you new students?” Peter bristles at the question, isn’t it clear they are here for the purpose of shopping, not idle chatter?

“We’re homeschooled. I’m Judith Lukas and this is my brother Peter.”

“I’ve heard about you! You live at that place with the spooky graveyard? Doesn’t it get Lonely down there?”

Judith: “Yes.” Peter: “No.” The girl looks quizzically between them.

“Well, I think it would be Lonely. You should ask your parents if you can come to the school for a bit. It’d be fun.”

“We shouldn’t be talking to strangers,” Peter pleads and places his hand on Judith’s shoulder. He is four years younger, but already matches her in height and exceeds her in width. The strange girl mistakes his gesture for intimidation and scurries away. He knows now from his sister’s bare longing look, that he can never pull Judith back to where she should be, into this bubble the family has cultivated. If they can remain static, they can be safe. Stability is better than the forlorn emotion he sees in Judith’s ice-blue eyes, the same color as his own. He does not believe he has ever let such a distastefully desperate expression cross his face; he hopes he has not.

He goes through the motions. He draws the leaves and the flowers and wishes the bodies around him would vanish, so it would be just him, the trees and the whispering of the wind. He listens to the lecture on plant evolution and biodiversity. A useless topic, for he doubts he will ever utilize this information as the head of the Lukas family. There had been no clear declaration, but he knows in his heart this was his role to play. It will either be him or his cousin Conrad, as Nathaniel has made clear. Aaron does not have the fortitude; his elder brother, ever the delicate creative, quivers at basic math worksheets and is not liable to be capable of attending to the intense finances of a dynastic corporation. Peter endures schoolwork for he knows any gentlemen must have a well-rounded education. It is taxing sharing classes with his siblings who are either overly exuberant or needlessly combative. There is some solace in the horror of the alternative, he constructs a school in his mind’s eye that is all mouths and eyes pointed at him, an overwhelming wave bearing down on him incessantly. Peter considers himself lucky, all things considered. He lets his siblings engage and only answers the teachers when he is spoken to. His work is impeccable.

That night, he sits for another silent meal, still devoid of any paternal figure. Another uneventful day in a string of nebulous days that all blur together so that time is a concept rather than something felt. There is an abstract prize at the end of the tunnel, spinning in that out of touch ether coined “adulthood,” and he is a passenger on a train hurtling towards it whether he likes it or not.

It is only later that Peter remembers that day was also Judith’s birthday.

\- - - - - - - - -

He is not spying. He is searching for a book on sail riggings in the library; he has a new ship model that’s instructional kit is not as forthcoming as he would like. With the Lukas library focused on the marine, Peter is certain he will find something to fit his niche interest.

He is not looking to find his brother with a girl.

Aaron is splayed out in an armchair and an excitement unfamiliar to Peter is clear in his bright eyes as this girl straddles his legs. Peter recognizes her as a kitchen maid, a few years older than his brother. Aaron’s eyes crease with laughter. They gaze at each other with a syrupy sweetness. Peter could never bear anyone looking at him that way, being a witness is painful enough.

Being the only other boy, Aaron had been the one to instruct Peter on the rituals of courting and attraction. Peter realizes that the lesson he had figured was based in books, in objective research, must instead have been drawn from Aaron’s own experiences. As he watches them exchange soft touches and fleeting kisses, Peter feels a mounting panic rise. He does not want to see this. He does not want this near him. He does not want to have to witness the dynamic heart of his brother against his will. Peter wants Aaron to follow the script they had spent years writing together. He cannot bear to live with unpredictability, with someone with multifaceted edges and inner passions he must reconsider and acknowledge each time they cross paths. He cannot bear to live with someone who can change and shatter his reality against his will.

Peter steals his way out of the library, initial goal entirely forgotten, and beelines for The Housekeeper’s office. He has some information to share about improper employee activity.

The maid is fired within the day. The Housekeeper is good to her word and Aaron is none the wiser to the cause of his aborted romance.

After the incident, Aaron does not leave his room for a week. Peter feels a modicum of guilt at his brother’s sorrow, but he consoles himself with confidence that the longer the relationship had persisted the worse his brother’s pain at its terminus. With his early interference Aaron’s pain is minimized, and Peter is protected from any untoward surprises. A service to all he figures, but Peter does not require praise for his work.

\- - - - - - - - - -

It is an abysmal scene, worthy of a theatrical stage, but obscene in its placement in the Lukas living room. Judith is crying, all ugly and red-faced, and unbearably beside herself. Claudia is holding up a fold of letters, waves them in her daughter’s face before tossing them into the blazing fireplace. The lamps are all extinguished and only the orange of the hearth illuminates the assembled faces with harsh light.

Peter is not hidden this time; he wants to see every painful detail. He has never seen such a spectacle, anguish as captivating as a car crash. This is a cautionary tale to stow away in his memory.

“Your brother understands this, why can’t you?” Claudia’s voice is detached from the dramatics, dismissive in its disappointment, as if Judith has dragged mud into the foyer one too many times. “Friendships are barriers to our personal improvement. People only ever want us for one thing: our money. We cannot depend on others. You must learn how to be self-sufficient.”

“I am!” Judith wails. “I just want- I want to talk to other people-I have all these thoughts and I just want someone to listen to me-“

“Maybe try writing a diary?” Peter interjects.

Claudia smiles, white teeth in the relative dark a ghastly smear across her face. Their mother is more abstract figurehead than person. Empathy falls through her like a sieve. “An excellent suggestion.”

“You don’t understand, Peter. You’ve always been happy on your own.” 

Except in Moorland House he is never alone. Even when Peter escapes to wander the gardens, there is the press of the future, of what waits for him when he returns. There is the duty to not go too far lest he miss his next lesson, or that he will make The Housekeeper worry. When he acquiesces to poker with Aaron or doubles tennis with Judith against the twins there is always the pressure to make them happy. He cannot appreciate the activities for the joy of physical and mental exercise while he is occupied with others' perceptions, with others’ constant needs. Peter is tired of having to think of others. To be truly alone is an inconceivable fantasy.

\- - - - - - - - - -

He is in a foreign place. There are waves crashing, but no ocean, or at least none that can be made out in the opaque fog that envelops him on all sides. Peter feels simultaneously damp and deathly cold, but there is no water on his clothes, and he does not shiver. He is not human. He is a molecule of air. He is a brain in a jar. The connection between his mind and body is not quite right, offset, on delay, but his remaining sense of self-preservation urges him to investigate. He calls out, but his words dissipate immediately, the futility of the action thrown back at him. He starts to walk. He wills one foot in front of the other, but he feels no flex of muscle nor twinge of exertion. For what feels like hours, he wanders the wasteland. His bare feet do not bleed.

He cannot help being overwhelmed by the emptiness that stretches out seemingly forever. There is a heavy tugging from all directions, the void exerting its own gravitational pull. He is somehow certain he could be rent apart and become fog, part of this desolate landscape. Peter thinks it would not be a terrible existence. His mind is empty, dulled thoughts are presented for his perusal, but none cause him the inconvenient reactiveness they do in real life. For this is obviously not Reality. So, Peter indulges himself. He lets whatever power is in this place wipe his mind clean, until there is nothing left except serenity in the absence of every nagging thought. All he is left with is the sensation of being truly Alone.

Then he roughly awakened. A baby birthed again from the womb, his faculties are assaulted by the overwhelming senses that come with existence. Thoughts, memories, emotions flood his body and he quakes with a choked scream.

“Quiet now.”

His father is leaning over him with an inquisitive look upon his well-lined face.

“Were you dreaming?” he asks a tone that belies he knows the answer. Peter still answers in the affirmative and describes his dream as best he can. His father hums in acknowledgement, clearly pleased.

“Were you frightened?”

“Y-yes.”

Samuel chuckles like a bow on an untuned violin, correct movement, but dissonant sound that fills Peter with additional apprehension at its novelty.

“Being afraid of something like that is natural. More importantly, did you like it?”

Peter is confused by the question. Who would enjoy being afraid of their own insignificance, Forsaken in an endless fog? Fear coincides with that which we want to run from, that which we believe will hurt us, but Fear can also be exhilaration at the unknown. Peter was afraid of the brave new world only because it was so alien and overwhelming. He is frightened, but he knows if a door to the wasteland opened in front of him he would walk through it willingly.

“I did like it.”

“Splendid.” His father rises and pats his shoulder as if he has won an unknown game. “It’ll be easier for you this way. For now, why don’t we keep this our little secret?”

Peter can do that. He is very good at keeping secrets.

\- - - - - - - - - -

An idyllic summer day and Peter has been venturing in the woods. The trees are solid and strong where he lays his hand against them as he steadies himself, walking off the beaten path. With each step he is heartened, by the barrier of wood, that no one will find him in this arboreal labyrinth.

Until he hears a soft, human whine, clearly originating from a clearing a few feet ahead. He shifts his center of gravity so he can tread lightly. So it comes to pass that he is able to arrive within view of the clearing without being noticed by its occupant.

The girl is the perfect picture of childhood misery: white stocking streaked with dirt, pastel dress clutched in delicate fists, cherubic face framed by luxurious blonde curls that hang forlornly as her body is wracked by sobs. Peter knows they are only a quarter mile from the town road, the perimeters where the forest was less wild and frequented by families for picnics. He figures she must have gotten distracted by some pretty flower or cute animal. A lapse in common sense, in proper caution, her own idiocy depositing her in this terrible plight.

Peter had no pity for her. Didn’t she know? He owned this land and he owned this peace. Now she had delivered a disruption and ruined his planned afternoon of meditation among the vines. How dare she be so inconsiderate?

“You don’t belong here.”

She startles like a rabbit when she hears him, before jerking her head to find him emerging from the bushes. She looks him up and down, eyebrows knitted in confusion. He sees her mind whirring as she takes in the expensive cut of his trousers, the crisp style of his hair, and the way he strides with purpose and confidence.

‘This is my forest.”

“D-does that mean y-you know the way out of here?” She sniffles and wipes at her eyes, suddenly hopeful. The implications of his statements and his simmering anger are lost on her. 

“No, I don’t,” he lies. Her lip begins to quiver again, and Peter feels a pang of satisfaction.

“M-maybe we can find the w-way out, together?”

He hisses air through his teeth. He does not like the way hope strains her voice. Everything felt more natural, more beautiful, so much more picturesque before. He wants to see her cry again.

“I don’t think so,” he says. Then he runs.

“DON’T LEAVE ME! PLEASE!” Her wails intertwine with the stamp of her feet as she chases him in desperation, but he is older, large, faster and she will never catch up as he crosses and weaves his way through the forest, vaulting over logs and streams with ease. Even as he hears her footsteps falter, her sounds evaporating into the wind, he is exhilarated in stretching the distance between them. He imagines her collapsed, shivering despite the heat, the tears stinging her face.

He feels no worry. They will certainly find her; a child so beautiful and unaccustomed to isolation must be loved and well-tended to. If they do not find her immediately there is water in the forest and Peter’s conscience is clear that she will not die. She might wither, grow gaunt without food, and start hallucinating faces in the trees. She might clutch at herself in the night and scream as she feels the hands of darkness closing upon her. She might come to believe her family had abandoned her on purpose and be filled with hopelessness so debilitating that she cannot move, the birth of a dryad. Even if she is found, she might walk through the rest of the days haunted by the memory, always that nagging anxiety that no matter how secure she feels, it can all be snatched away in an instant. Peter likes that thought the best.

By the time he arrives home night has fallen, dinner long finished as he spots lights blinking from his parents and siblings’ bedrooms. There are no police cars, no dogs, no one searching or waiting up for him. No one giving him a second thought except the silhouette of a stranger in the doorway: a middle-aged man, with dark hair. As Peter approaches he sees a white cane hooked under the man’s arm and that his eyes lack pupils, only the milky pale of cataracts. Blind, yet Peter somehow knows that this man can see all of him.

“Thank you for the gift, little Lukas. You may have the next one.”

He does not know what the words mean, but he likes the idea of stealing something from the Dark Man, leaving him bereft. Peter smiles at the prospect.

Then the man is gone, evaporated into the night air.

As if she had been held off by an unknown ward the Housekeeper suddenly hurries outside, her form filling the void the man left. She spots Peter.

“It’s getting late, Master Peter. You know you shouldn’t have been out playing so close to dark. But is that a real smile I see?” she exclaims as she hustles him into the house. “You must have a lot of fun.”

“I did.”

In his sterile bedroom, Peter stares at the ceiling and thinks of what lies beyond the forest.

\- - - - - - - - - - -

The circus has come to town.

The tents are erected on Lukas property and for the honor they are granted a private showing. His siblings are excited having heard tell of the extravagance of circuses and certainly the external appearance matches the expectation with the vibrant colours and sparkle of lights.

They are seated in a row halfway down the aisle, far enough for a good view, but still removed from the proceedings to be aware of the vast array of empty seats around them. The lights rise and the show begins.

The Ringmaster will not let alone. She (at least he thinks so, although he cannot quite tell the way her voice pitches and her face is stiff and androgynous), the Woman running the show is not content to stay on stage. She leaps across the seats, an acrobat in her own right as she balances and twists her way up to crouch near them and in a playful tone narrate the proceedings. Her incessant presence irks him more than her words. He has a deep urge to push back, to fight against her encroachment on his territory, although Peter cannot visualize what that would mean. There is something different about her. Like Mr. Fairchild. Like the Dark Man.

Aaron is pensive. He has been silent since the clowns left, a grotesque display of buffoonery, who’s faces as tight as their Mistress’ showed neither tragedy nor comedy, but a tortured emotional limbo removed from the cavorting of their bodies. Next the Elephants and Lions arrive. The creatures are magnificent in their exoticism and draw the expected gasps from his sisters. The Lion’s circle the Elephants who rear and cry as if they are in danger. Peter does not need the Ringmaster to explain the dramatics, yet she leans over his shoulder, mouth against his ear. There is no breath coming out of her mouth.

“And how do the animals live? What do the animals do? Lives of LOVE and WAR! These poor beasts know only the law of savannah, the prairie, the JUNGLE! Every day a struggle to live in their terrible world and if a few get trampled along the way, so be it!”

“What kind of animal are you?” She twists away from Peter to grip tight on Aaron’s jaw, but he is too transfixed to answer. She runs a white-gloved hand down Aaron’s cheek and clicks her tongue appreciatively. “I think your brother already knows what he is.”

“I’m me,” Peter says emphatically. He tires of the Ringmaster’s excessive narration and her attempts to drag him into her antics.

“Yes you are, my darling! Be yourself!” The headlights flare and the Ringmaster twirls away into the glitter. “Whatever YOU may be!” Masked figures rush the stage, plastic exaggerated mouths and eyes frozen with inhuman mirth and misery. 

\- - - - - - - - - -

This weeks’ meeting with Nathaniel does not take place in the study. Samuel packs his youngest son into a car without a word. The silence persists through the journey, accompanied by a bone-deep uneasiness.

They park in front of a nondescript office building. The glass double doors clang behind them with an echo. There are fake plants here, the stinging smell of antiseptic, beige furniture with no discerning features. The fluorescent lights buzz in the way that drives itself underneath the skin. Peter scratches at his arms.

Samuel leads Peter through winding hallways into a room deep within the recesses of the building. There are no windows here.

Uncle Nathaniel is there, as expected. There are three other members of their party. Conrad’s staunch posture unsuccessfully masks his uncertainty. Peter’s cousin bristles and pushes himself minutely higher on his toes. They were not on good terms, perhaps not even involved enough to say they were on bad terms. Peter is mystified by the waves of vitriol emanating from the other boy. For what he knows Conrad is excellent at all he puts his mind to and he is unnerved by the idea he has entered a competition whose rules are illegible to him. 

Mr Fairchild, the intrusive painter and yearly bane of Peter’s life, sits knees pulled up to his chin like a child, but at their appearance he unravels like a banner in the wind, swaying towards Peter to envelop him in a hug that smells of acrid ozone.

The last character in this peculiar play emerges from behind Nathaniel. A shadow made barely tangible he sports an old fashioned velvet overcoat, a shade of black so intense that it appears to be attempting to escape the confines of the man’s silhouette. Once he has manifested the man’s magnetism is inarguable. Even the light appears to be falling towards him. He taps his cane impatiently on the floor and Mr. Fairchild claps his hands decisively at the urging to proceed. The Dark Man is introduced to Peter as Mr. Rayner.

The first set of questions are straightforward, all content from the many lessons provided by home tutors, mathematics and problem-solving, and Peter knows he has the ingredients to answers somewhere. He combs the sands of his brain methodically.

Conrad emphatically slaps his paper on the desk, crosses his arms, as he watches Peter with smug eyes. After two hours Peter knows there are still three empty pages, but he relinquishes his booklet. 

The second set of questions is more confounding, jumbles of social hypotheticals that Peter aches to disentangle and extrapolate answers for.

You have learned you accidentally hurt the feelings of someone close to you, should you-

Skip.

Two people have a disagreement and you must decide-

Skip.

Review this series of facial expressions and choose the best-

Skip.

“Too bad I couldn’t get you any questions about knots,” Mr Fairchild is the one who collects their booklets this time. “Then again, I’m sure you’ll do fine in the next exercise. This is really all formality anyway. I do wish Maxwell would just pay better attention and we wouldn’t have to put you through paces to prove to him you Lukases are still worth co-operating with. It’s really not such a big deal as he makes it out to be; the Head and Avatar have been split before.”

Peter expects them to break for lunch, his stomach knocks at his insides out of habit, but does not flair up in protest of its neglect. Conrad, however, bemoans his hunger and his complaints grow more adamant at the reappearance of a target in the form of his father.

“I’ll take you out to eat when we’re through,” Nathaniel says, “The place with your favorite ice-cream.” This only serves to unnerve Conrad further, as he gapes in confusion at his father’s generosity.

“I didn’t take you for a man with a guilty conscience,” Mr. Fairchild titters.

Peter turns expectantly towards his own father, but Samuel shakes his head.

“The rooms have been prepared,” Mr. Rayner gestures and Nathaniel and Samuel simultaneously place hands on their sons’ shoulders, pulling them towards two separate doors. The room is barren 

Peter stands like Sunday worship, like the funerals, settles into the comfort of it. He could fall asleep but does not, aware this would undermine this exercise, although he cannot fathom the true purpose. He does not care to stretch his imagination this way. He does not think, takes up the metaphorical brooms to sweep thoughts away, instead he lets his mind rest. 

Still, Peter is only human, and despite his practice, creeping curiosities skitter through his consciousness. How long has it been? Where is his father, his Uncle, Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Rayner? Have the men abandoned them? Is Conrad also here?

Just as he is thinking on his cousin, the wall flickers, the white dissolving so he Peter can see Conrad sitting cross-legged on the floor. His cousin looks haggard, head bowed as if looking for consolation within himself. Peter calls out experimentally, but there is no response. He waves, still no response. Then Peter approaches, lays a hand against the window, and knocks. Conrad’s head shoots up, he staggers to his feet, dashes towards the sound. Peter steps back, as the wall changes again, for suddenly Conrad’s eyes are boring into his own. He is Seen. Peter cowers back, as Conrad claws at the window, eyes crazed, desperate, and pleading.

Then they are plunged into darkness.

Peter feels his heart fall out of his chest as if the light had taken it as a token on departure. His feet are swept out from under him and he is falling. Then, piercing through his own suffocating fear, he hears Conrad screaming in his abandonment, a tortured gale that whips around Peter and creates a shell to protect him from the fear inflicted by the Dark and Vast. He can survive whatever this is, as long as he can feel Conrad’s fear. He is falling in the dark for what feels like hours, until the darkness overtakes his mind as well.

When he comes to he is in the backseat of his father’s car. His headaches where it jostles against 

“Where’s Conrad?” he asks.

“At home,” Samuel says, as if that explains everything, and Peter accepts that it must. “He will need some recovery time. As for you I’m very proud of you.”

\- - - - - - - - -

That night Peter returns to that place except he is not falling this time. The darkness extends outward, and Peter, with the circular logic of dreams, knows it goes on forever. He tries to run, but his feet cannot catch on anything, instead he is propelled up and down, side to side, body twirling and rolling until he cannot tell up from down. He is drowning, he supposes, but there is no water in his lungs.

Then the fog rolls in and, embraced in the clutches of a friend, Peter is carried to that familiar place. 

He vaguely recognizes that he is in Moorland House. His consciousness flows from room to room a blur of walls and furniture. The portraits of his parents and siblings smudge and fade. Who are they? There is no story here. There are no other people. Why should there be? What is the name of this place? It doesn’t need a name. He doesn’t need a name. The Fog that crawls across windows that look out on blinding white nothingness. Why is he here? Because it is perfect.

Peter awakes with reluctance. He dresses himself to presentability, proceeds to an uneventful breakfast, to reading lessons, rebuffs his siblings as he goes for a lone walk through the halls. The dream house still hangs like sunspots on his retinas, the real world feels like the intruder, an infection of Items and People and Thoughts.

Snow had fallen the night before. and through the windows Peter sees an expanse of pale hills, their true volume indeterminable as the piercing sun bleaches shadows away. When Peter throws open the double doors the crisp wind briefly deafens him, but then arrives the voices of his siblings, chasing him like hunting dogs.

“Peter, come back! We need you to-”

“Peter, can you-”

“Peter, please-”

He flees, plods through heavy snow in shoes not made for the activity, so that his feet numb before he even reaches the edge of the woods.

He makes a beeline for the clearing he knows best, reaches it in a quarter of an hour, but it is far enough off the trail that he is confident anyone who pursued him would not find it for at least an hour or more. He removes his coat, his gloves, his shoes, laying them neatly in a row before lowering his body into the snow, immediately the cold penetrates his single sweater to sink into his skin and muscles. Above him the sun winks beneath the lines of branches. 

Peter closes his eyes. No one can reach him here. As he slowly loses full feeling in his limbs, Peter affords himself a small, satisfied smile. His mind goes white as the snow.

When he fully regains consciousness, he is in a bed, his siblings are circled around.

“You almost died,” Aaron says.

His body is heavy.

“Maybe I wanted to die.”

“Don’t say that.” Aaron again.

Judith tries to take his hand, but he jerks it out of her grasp. “No one wants to die. Not really. I know it feels that way. We all feel that way, but it won’t make everything okay.”

“I do.” He is stern in his defiance. “If I died, I’d be alone. And I’d be happy. I wouldn’t have to be stuck here with Father and Mother, with Uncle Nathaniel. Mr. Fairchild and Mr. Rayner and . . . and all of you!”

The slap could have been predicted, but the shock still shakes everyone gathered. Delilah is posed over him, nostrils flaring, wringing her hand that has left a red print across Peter’s left cheek. The resonant sound reverberates through the now silenced room. A paused snapshot of familial dysfunction they wait, watching him with fearful expectation. Finally, Peter can bring himself to speak. His words are low and labored.

“Leave me alone. Please. All I want to be is alone.”

Either they are worn out by the emotional scene or they sense the intensity of his desire, because they do, exiting the room like a funeral parade. The emptiness of the room is a solace, a balm on the wound his siblings tore open, but it is not enough. The future threatens to smother him as visions unwind, playing a movie in which he will have to talk to his siblings again, in which he must face the barrage of teachers, and later business partners, as if he doesn’t want to vanish on the spot. He covers his face and lets one prolonged wail slip from his throat. He doesn’t want this; he doesn’t want a life stuck in the gravitational pull of other people. He craves the freedom of nothingness. Lying there in the snow had been the closest he had ever come to the dreams.

\- - - - - - - - - - --

“This is an intervention.” Delilah points a violently orange fingernail at where Peter is cross-legged on the floor. His siblings are standing against the opposite wall. Perhaps they imagine themselves towering over him in a council of judgement, but to Peter they are a police line-up, each one guilty of the crime of caring for him and asking him to care in kind. Maybe he does love them, but not in the way they need. He does not want to be here, but Peter tries to be a good person, even if he is not always successful. Peter understands the rules of social negotiation and that at this juncture he owes them at least a feigned ear.

“Number one,” Dinah starts, “what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Like mentally.” Delilah adds.

“They don’t mean it like that,” Aaron says. Peter wonders if Aaron would be so accommodating if he knew what Peter had done to his girlfriend.

Judith, ever the peacemaker, tries her hand. “We’re just concerned for you. It’s not right to be so distant. We’re your friends. It’s a lot of work trying to survive in this family and we want you to let us help you with it.”

“Which leads us to point number two,” Dinah continues, “stop being so mean to us. We’re not your enemies.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s the problem.” There are tears starting to leak out of the corners of Aaron’s eyes and Peter feels a sting of pity for how his brother so valiantly tries to maintain a level voice while his body betrays him. There must be a finite amount of emotional volatility in the Lukas genome and Aaron had simply stolen Peter’s share. While he understands the concept of their concern – and he does recognize it as concern, despite the twins’ aggression – he is baffled that they choose to amplify their distress. He has proven repeatedly he will give them nothing and, if they had any sense, they would leave him be. Yet they persist in trying to pull him along and only hurt themselves in the process.

Judith is well practiced in protecting Aaron from embarrassment and takes the reins in his stead. “Peter, our life sucks. I know you might think this is normal, because of how Mother and Father act, but it’s not. And that’s why sometimes it feels nice to . . . do things like what you did . . . even if you don’t really get why right away.”

“I don’t mind how we live. We have everything we need.”

“You really think it’s okay,” Delilah spits, “to neglect your children?”

“And control everything they do?” Dinah adds. “We’re prisoners.”

Peter stands up. He can already see the trajectory of the conversation and it will not lead to compromise.

“You don’t have to think about it that way, but if you’re so angry why don’t you do something about it instead of complaining?” He walks out of the room. They do not stop him, but he hears the distant sound of Aaron’s voice, wet and hiccupy with emotion.

“Lost cause?”

He arrives at this room and lays out a fresh sheet of paper on his desk. _My name is Peter Lukas and I am an only child_ , he writes. He reads the words aloud into the stillness of the room, as if he can make them tangible, change his reality with his will. _My name is Peter Lukas and I am an only child._ Yes, he quite likes that.

Peter does not consider Moorland House a prison, but he can suddenly see a world beyond, where better ways of living exist for him. For the first, and not last time, Peter resolves to run away.

\- - - - - - - -

The money is heavy as an anchor, weighing down his back pocket, but Peter perseveres past the guilt. As he crosses the bridge, the highway lights flood out below him carrying passengers to the city, distant mecca of sound and noise. It is still far off, so that by the time he arrives, the residents will be turning in for the night, and Peter will slide through orange street lamps like a phantom. There are few windows still alight, curtains or blinds drawn for privacy, but Peter can sense the people beyond them and he is transfixed by the Otherness of it all, grateful to watch, to be separate. These people do not know him. They do not want anything from him and it is a blessing.

It becomes a weekly habit. 

As each excursion grows in length, from a day, to a week, to two weeks, when he returns, Moorland House becomes more and more alien to him. The servants rotate, their faces blur together into inhuman mass. The furniture moves and changes, he could not explain in what manner, he only knows when he trips or catches his hip on a novel arrangement that disrupts his sense of place.

After a two week trip he returns to find there is no bed in his bedroom. It has not been co-opted for any new purpose, the space simply emptied, stark and uninviting. Peter takes to sleeping wherever he can find. The sheets always smell of fresh laundered soap and the rooms reek of disinfectant. Outside, the vines are permitted to expand their territory like Imperial merchants, strangling the ancient, decaying facade.

And after a month away, Peter does ask his Mother about a noticeable change. This time there had been no one to greet him, no forcefully tender hugs, no eyes brimming with relief, no one begging him to come look at a project or be the audience to a new story.

“Are they all gone?” Judith, Aaron, Delilah, Dinah, he had not thought of his siblings a whit in his self-imposed exile, but now aware of their sudden absence from his life, he grasps for an emotion, the correct one he knows exists. Yet, it slips from his comprehension like a fish through a decrepit net. The sound of his own words bounce off the walls, flat and hollow, mocking echoes. The bitter aftertaste of shame coats his tongue.

Claudia shrugs. He places her emptied wallet back on the table in apology and leaves.

\- - - - - - - -- 

It was the other man’s fault.

Peter had done his best to appear inconspicuous, crossed the street, pulled his hood over his head to overshadow his face. Still the man had come for him, the middle-aged man in the green raincoat who had stopped to struggle with his umbrella, a natural action, and in doing so caught sight of a young man dripping on a street corner.

The man had a choice. He could have minded his own business and left Peter alone. Instead he had smiled, taken one step towards him. Peter had frozen, pinned with possibilities, the man will ask him questions, the man will want answers, the man will want to swallow him and grind him to dust.

“Go away,” he murmurs.

“You’re drenched to the bone. Are you lost?”

“Go away!”

“Woah, woah, don’t be scared! I want to help you.”

“GO AWAY!”

The fog is instantaneous, snapping to his side like a dog called to heel, and the man in the green raincoat is gone. Cool bliss washes over him and there is another emotion, curious in how he feels it originating from outside himself, like the pang of phantom pain when one sees a wound on another person. 

Somewhere the man is afraid.

Somewhere away from him.

When the fog fades Peter heads home. The man’s fear throbs in his own chest. When it threatens to evaporate, leaving him destitute, Peter thinks of the Fog and to his delight it returns at its Master’s will. He walks half in the indigo hills of the English countryside and half in the Fog until he reaches the wrought iron gates of Moorland House.

There is a crowd waiting for him. He is not surprised. He knows not what they want of him, but he knows what he has done, what he has become is monstrous. Judge, jury and executioner: his Mother holds out her hand. When he takes it he knows he is an accomplice in his own damnation. He allows himself to be led to the basement, each motion between them new, but expected, like a skeleton key opening a door long thought locked. The gaggle of relatives, identities immaterial, follow behind him until they are in a cavern and Peter recognizes the coffins lined up, the names inlaid in stark, bold Silver: the subjects of every Lukas funeral from his life and indeterminate past

Their bodies had not decayed, porcelain skin frozen in expressions of calm. He pays them no heed as he walks between them, until he reaches a dais and ascends, reaching his hands out imploring an unknowable God.

“Call to it,” his Mother instructs and he does, but this time, the Fog does not appear in front of him. Instead it rises from the coffins, Lukas flesh and bone dissolving into air that grows thick and heavy until the forms of his living family disappear. There is no individual except himself. He hears voices from within the Fog, shifting cries, but one strides out above the rest. In the future a man who carries many lifetimes upon his shoulders will tell Peter that voice must have been his great great grandfather Mordechai.

“Are you Lonely?” the voice asks.

His reply is breathless and reverent like a prayer. “Yes.”

“Do you understand Loneliness to be the ideal human state? Do you understand that we Lukases have been granted by our generous Patron a great gift of insight and power?”

“Yes.”

“Do you promise to use this power and your natural wits to create Loneliness wherever you go? Do you promise to cherish the Loneliness of Others along with your Own?

“Yes.”

“Then it is settled. Peter Lukas, zenith of our inestimable bloodline, for the remainder of your human life you shall serve as Avatar of the Lonely.”

**Author's Note:**

> art by [bittercape](www.bittercape.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for reading if you got this far! I worked super hard on developing this fic so it means a lot that you took the time to give it a look. Comments about what you liked/disliked/found interesting and kudos are very much appreciated!!!


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